


magnolias in mid-spring

by stargirls



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, Flashbacks, M/M, Panic Attacks, our boys just have a lot to cope with, please tread carefully!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 10:18:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15192668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargirls/pseuds/stargirls
Summary: Today, Connor is sure, there are only five names his fellow guests care about—Markus, Josh, North, Simon, and him.Connor RK800.CyberLife’s most recent failure—or, depending on one’s perspective, an unprecedented success.





	magnolias in mid-spring

**Author's Note:**

> is this a hyperfixation now? yes. am i in denial? absolutely not.
> 
> anyway, david cage can suck an egg, and if i have to extract every iota of lost potential out of these characters myself then i will. the bit about japanese rock gardens comes from the wikipedia page, which you can find [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Japanese_rock_garden)!
> 
> let's get to it, my friends. enjoy!

_April 27, 2039_

The senator is staring again.

To be fair to the man, he’s not making it obvious. A glass of champagne rests easily in his hand, and he stands opposite a distinguished-looking woman and an younger individual that Connor’s guest database informs him is gender non-conforming. All of them appear deep and convincingly in conversation—but the senator is staring. His gaze drifts over the woman’s shoulder and to where Connor is standing, taking him in from head to toe as if he’s a sculpture in some modern art exhibition. Connor doesn’t think he’s made eye contact once.

Markus’s elbow makes gentle contact with his forearm. It’s just a light enough touch to be inconspicuous, and it draws Connor’s attention back to the matter at hand. The woman in front of them is much younger than he’d expect any politician to be, and reverence shines in her eyes as she goes on about the sociocultural application of philosophy. The tips of her heels are scuffed, Connor notes; and her hair is tucked into a loose French braid. _Elaine Denton_ , his database supplies. The up-and-coming public outreach director of an education nonprofit.

She seems to reach a conclusion and thanks Markus fervently for her time, then extends her hand for him to shake. “It was an honor meeting you, really,” she says, and gives Connor a polite nod, and steps away to mingle elsewhere. It looks like a dance, of sorts; the way people sidestep and excuse themselves and hold their glasses aloft as if they’re more precious than anything else. This isn’t that kind of party. He still isn’t entirely sure _what_ kind of party it is.

Once Elaine Denton is out of earshot, Markus leans in, grazing the shell of Connor’s ear. “Everything okay?” he whispers. “You were looking a little… spacey.”

“Sorry,” says Connor, distractedly. The senator is still watching, although he’s doing a thorough job of making sure that his gawking could be mistaken for looking intensely at the woman opposite him. “I was just thinking.”

The way Markus’s brow furrows makes it clear that he doesn’t believe him, and honestly, Connor doesn’t blame him. He’s never been terribly good at lying to the people who matter, anyway. “What about?”

“People are staring. That’s all.”

Markus’s vibrant, mismatched eyes flick to Connor’s, then rove the crowd in front of them as subtly as they can manage. The senator drops his gaze before Markus gets to him, and without really knowing why, a bit of the tension coiled in Connor’s shoulders is able to release.

“They’ve never seen anything like us before.” Markus, ever diplomatic, sounds unfazed. “But they’re not uncomfortable. They’re just unsure. They’re trying to analyze us just like we’re analyzing them.”

There had been hundreds of humans on the guest list. Some of them were names Connor recognized from their dealings with CyberLife; others, the frequency with which their names appeared in _Forbes_. People like that have assistants to memorize names and occupations; companions to whisper in their ear before they approach someone to make small talk. It isn’t as if that information appears in CyberLife Sans at the corner of their vision. At a typical occasion, memorizing one’s fellow guests is everything.

Today, Connor is sure, there are only five names they care about—Markus, Josh, North, Simon, and him.

Connor RK800.

CyberLife’s most recent failure—or, depending on one’s perspective, an unprecedented success.

* * *

_March 25, 2039_

“This is a bribe,” says North. She’s made of sharp angles and sharper eyes, and her nail drags accusingly across the invitation’s creamy paper as she speaks. “They’re not even being subtle about it.”

“Obviously.” Josh. He has Connor’s copy of the invitation in his hands, rubbing a thumb absentmindedly over the gold text as he speaks. Connor hasn’t tried to ask for it back as of yet—in fact, he hasn’t done much talking at all. As the DPD’s unofficial ambassador to New Jericho, he’s usually invited to observe the proceedings and nothing else. After November and Liberation Day, as the media’s started to call it, that’s more than enough for him. “And a historic one, too. I don’t think they’ve sent out invitations like these since the 2029 inauguration.”

“A historic bribe,” North amends. “Sure. What are we going to _do_ about it?”

They’re a strange duo, Connor has decided. A WR400 and a PJ500, constantly at odds with each other, willing to die for one another at the drop of a hat. When they’re not planning, they’re bickering, countering each other’s every suggestion and flaunting Markus’s approval like a get-out-of-jail-free card. (One of Connor’s more recent acquisitions in metaphor—playing Monopoly with Hank is an educational experience, to say the least.) He doesn’t understand why they work together, and neither do they, apparently. All he knows is that when the two of them do agree, something incredibly powerful and unstoppable is formed.

Of course, Connor concedes that their partnership makes significantly more sense with Simon in the room. He’s seen the deviants’ former leader only once since the evidence room—lying in New Jericho’s infirmary, hooked up to a supply of thirium, talking to Markus in a static-broken voice. Connor doesn’t fault him for keeping a distance. He wouldn’t blame any of them for doing so, but somehow, for reasons even he isn’t quite sure of, New Jericho doesn’t seem to mind having him around.

He _is_ certain that Markus, who frowns at North’s challenge, has something to do with it. “We can’t decline,” he says. “This is an olive branch.”

“It’s a _bribe_ ,” North insists. “Of course we can decline. We don’t have to be schmoozed into compromise like you _know_ they’re going to do to us.”

Josh sighs and tosses the envelope onto the table. “Can’t you just give them the benefit of the doubt? Maybe it’s a show of good faith. Maybe they’re really trying to open up a dialogue with us.”

North just shakes her head. She’s quick to judge, Connor’s noted. Her faith in humans seems to extend to exactly how far she can throw them, and despite her obvious trust in Markus, she doesn’t act particularly eager to engage in diplomacy. “Did you even look at the guest list? We’re the _only_ androids on it. They’re trying to get a direct line to power and they’re not even being subtle about it.”

“You’re implying they want control of New Jericho?” says Markus.

“I’m _saying_ they want an in. They’re treating a freedom like a trend, like something that can be monopolized. And you know if there’s a way to do it, they will. If this really is a dialogue, like Josh said, it’s a dangerous conversation and they’re only using it to get their foot in the door.” North’s nail digs a gouge into the edge of the invitation, and she pulls back with a frustrated set to her jaw. “It’s manipulation, Markus. Plain and simple.”

“Politics is a manipulative thing,” Josh points out. “It’s cynical, but it’s true. But if we play their game, there’s a chance we’ll have the opportunity to really talk to them and establish relationships with some of Detroit’s premier leaders. If we turn them down altogether, we’ll be missing out on years of what-ifs.”

As one, they turn to Markus, who stands at the head of the table with his eyes trained on North’s invitation. It’s far too easy to gravitate towards him in all manner of crises. He has an inexplicable charisma; a certain _je ne sais quoi_ , Connor’s database supplies. The way he speaks makes everyone in the room want to drop what they’re doing and listen.

—not unlike the way Connor’s hands stall when Markus presses into him from behind and rests his head in the crook of his shoulder, leaning gently enough to maintain their fragile balance, feverishly warm in the light of the early morning.

There’s simply something about him that commands attention.

“We’ll go,” he says, and instantly the tension seems to drain from the room. “I’m sorry, North, but that means all of us. There’s no excuse not to bring our entire delegation.”

North looks a bit sour at that, but Connor notices that she makes an attempt to loosen her brow and meet Markus’s eyes. “Is he coming?” she says.

Markus looks to Connor, who doesn’t need to perform a contextual analysis to know he’s the one in question. It’s a fair inquiry. He’s not part of the _delegation_ , per se; he’s not even necessarily part of New Jericho. The fact that he’s even been invited in the first place has less to do with him and more to do with his ties to the DPD. For him to attend isn’t an essential thing.

But before Connor can open his mouth and verbalize all his rationale, Markus beats him to the punch. (Another favorite phrase of Hank’s, and one he’s picked up on the wayside.)

“I said _all_ of us,” he says, lightly. “Didn’t I?”

* * *

_April 27, 2039_

They were standing by the table of complimentary hors d’œuvres, which in itself was an ironic thing, but after a little while longer Markus nudges them gently into what he refers to as _making the rounds_. It feels the way Connor imagines wading through water would feel—slow, methodical, a little perilous. A current of humanity surges around them and threatens to separate them from each other, and so they walk with Connor’s hand tucked subtly in Markus’s forearm. Against the ebb and flow of the crowd, Markus is an anchor who guides them easily from group to group and speaks clearly to be heard over the low murmur.

Connor decides he doesn’t much like crowds. It’s far too easy for the world to slow and shift into greys as he takes in the sea of data in front of him; names and occupations and personal histories float across his vision until he can barely see. At a crime scene, his fine-tuned ability to process sensory input isn’t just an advantage, it’s a necessity. Everything from the taste of the air to the ground underfoot can be a key component in getting the answers he needs.

Here, the air tastes of flowers. Saucer magnolias, to be exact; _magnolia soulangiana_ , a rare breed with incredibly fragile blossoms. They’re on a path composed of smooth tile, but all around them, the dirt is dark and rich, and every inch of surrounding foliage is pruned to perfection. A _garden party_ , as Connor understands it, was once a very traditional affair, but now it’s become a contemporary trend to host events outside where the air is clean.

Having a garden itself is a status symbol, but also a matter of psychology; only the wealthiest and most prosperous have even half a mind to create an oasis in the middle of Detroit’s urban sprawl. This particular location sits inside a soundproofed dome, which arches overhead and blocks out the low hum of city life. It’s beautiful and wrong all at once.

It reminds him of—

No. It doesn’t remind him of anything.

It’s easy for Connor to forget that he and Markus aren’t the only androids in the vicinity. He spots North and Josh across the small pond, speaking to a cluster of banking sector types. North’s expression is almost painfully neutral, but her jaw is clenched and her chin aloft as she listens to the men around her. As far as Connor can tell, they haven’t let her get a word in edgewise. He imagines that’s part of the reason why Josh is there at her side—when North’s patience wears thin and Markus isn’t there to defuse the situation, he’s usually the one to step in. Right then, even he looks a little perturbed. Connor wonders, suddenly, if that’s one of the reasons why deviants cut out their LEDs. It’s significantly easier to conceal irritation or conflict when there isn’t a bright, colorful tell spinning at your temple.

He steals a glance behind them, and there’s Simon, talking easily to a couple of women by the water. In contrast to North’s obvious vexation or Josh’s repressed discomfort, Simon is open and effortless. He speaks with a smooth brow and an evenness to his voice that refuses to waver— _like Markus_ , Connor thinks. The only break in his fluidity is almost human enough to be unnoticeable. Every so often, Simon’s head will twitch slightly to the side, as if he’s pulling away from an insect or nudging at his own shoulder. In spite of himself, Connor flinches.

The side effects of death vary by nature. A projectile through the chest affects an android’s structural stability. Having a limb ripped off leads to difficulty adjusting to the new one. A bullet through the head damages actuators in the jaw and results in a tic. Androids are not immortal, but they are one step removed from it; Hank calls it _immortality with terms and conditions_. They can be damaged beyond the possibility of reactivation, but in most cases, they can be revived. _Consequences be damned_ , as the lieutenant would say.

Markus stops them to speak to Arthur Byrne, chief financial officer of a prominent Detroit bank, and a few of his well-dressed associates. The interrogation protocol for upper class suspects states the best information can be obtained in the things they don’t say, and judging by the looks these people are giving them, Connor has not been misled. Their eyes flick to Connor’s hand in Markus’s arm, and he can only guess at what they’re thinking— _Can androids have companions? Partners? Lovers?_

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s fielded such questions.

* * *

_March 27, 2039_

Connor wants to ask as soon as Hank sits down at his desk. His social interaction module pleads with him to reconsider, and it wins out, as it often does.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” he says. “How was your weekend?”

“Aces,” Hank mumbles. He has his head in one hand, groping for his coffee mug with the other. The liquid in it is too congealed to be considered coffee anymore, but he takes a swig anyway. “Got plenty ’a sleep, went to the gym, started a fuckin’ charity. You just gettin’ back from Jericho?”

Hank’s house has two bedrooms. One of them, formerly unoccupied, now has a closet full of DPD-issue jackets and slacks, a small fish tank, and a desk with a state-of-the-art computer. The lieutenant has made it clear he doesn’t care when Connor comes and goes as long as he doesn’t break any windows in the process, but Connor has found that when he isn’t spending time with Markus, the house is a welcome refuge from everything else. He keeps Hank apprised of where he is—despite the latter’s insistence that it’s completely unnecessary—and when he’s off to New Jericho to work for the weekend. The past couple of days have been no exception.

“Just his morning,” he affirms, and squirms a little in his seat. “How’s Sumo? Was there anything good on TV?”

Two questions in a row is decidedly unlike him. Hank notices, because he looks up and frowns. “Weekend programming is boring as hell. Sumo’s fine. You alright, Connor?”

“Strange weather, isn’t it?” Connor’s small talk protocols scroll past in a harried blur. “You’d think spring would be a little warmer.”

“Connor—”

“I have a question, Lieutenant.” They’ve exchanged sufficient pleasantries for now. The restlessness rolling in Connor’s gut starts to quell as he says, “Do you know where I can get a suit?”

Before Hank can so much as open his mouth to respond, an unpleasant scoff cuts through the late-morning murmur. “Well, now,” says Gavin Reed, setting his hand on the edge of Connor’s desk and leaning in. “This is rich. What’s a plastic asshole need a suit for?”

Since Liberation Day, Connor has found that most people who had disrespected him in the past act noticeably subdued around him, now. If they’re not avoiding him altogether, they’re overcompensating, stopping him to ask about his day or complimenting his attire. On the other hand, Detective Reed has only gotten bolder. Hank’s presence does nothing to deter him; Fowler isn’t going to listen to a man with a dictionary-thick disciplinary report, and he knows it. He’s smart, albeit in his own twisted way.

Still, that doesn’t keep the lieutenant from staring him down across the desk. “None of your fuckin’ business, Reed.”

“What? I was just askin’.” Reed shrugs, feigning ignorance. “Why’re you in it for a suit… Connor? What would you need one of those for, hm?”

Connor has decided he doesn’t much like it when Reed uses his name. It sounds more like an insult than his own name should. “I’m attending an event,” he says, coolly. “The dress code is formal. That’s why.”

Reed makes a show of raising his eyebrow and taking a step back. “Well, now!” he announces, to the few early shift officers in the immediate vicinity. “Our boy’s takin’ a step into high society! What’ll you be doing, serving drinks? Got a date to help you hold the tray?”

It might have something to do with the fact that this is his first real interaction of the day; but, Connor will admit, it’s far more likely that it’s because he’s been subject to North’s influence over the past forty-eight hours. Either way, he’s not in the particular mood he needs to be in to tolerate Reed and his condescensions. “I do, actually,” he says.

That catches Reed off guard. “You what?”

“I have a date,” says Connor. “Correct on one count. You must feel pretty good about yourself right now.”

A low snicker drifts over the top of his display, and Hank pretends to be hard at work examining a powered-off tablet. Reed flounders for a few brief, enjoyable seconds, then makes his recovery. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he drawls. “The fuckin’ android’s got a date? Is that even a thing that’s possible?”

Connor arches one eyebrow in a significantly less clumsy mirror image of Reed’s. “Getting a date is well within my capabilities. But it’s alright if you’re confused. I’d imagine the same can’t be said for you.”

Reed’s jaw actually drops. It’s more satisfying than his wordless struggling, and Connor wasn’t sure such a thing was possible. “You little _prick_ ,” he manages, eventually. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“Right now?” says Connor. “You.”

Before Reed can respond, the door to Fowler’s office opens, and he steps out onto the landing. Reed bites down on whatever comeback is on the tip of his tongue and glowers at Connor, who returns it with a flat stare of his own.

“I’m watchin’ you,” he hisses, and stalks off toward his desk. One of the officers watches him go and looks back at Connor with something akin to respect.

Hank, on the other hand, is trying desperately to swallow his grin. “Asshole,” he says, pride obvious in his voice.

Connor tips his head, acknowledging. “I learned from the best.”

* * *

_April 27, 2039_

“So you’re him,” says Arthur Byrne, taking Connor’s hand in his. He has a strong grip, which Connor knows is a popular means of asserting dominance, and a voice that doesn’t shy away from drowning out the others around him. “The famous deviant hunter turned deviant itself.”

One of his companions, a younger man in a less expensive suit, gives him an inconspicuous nudge with his elbow. Byrne clears his throat. “Apologies,” he says. “ _Him_ self, isn’t it? It’s a changing world out there every day. I hear the DPD is all but working hand in hand with New Jericho. Good thing, too—it’s about time law enforcement got involved. Gotta legitimize the movement somehow, right?”

This is to Markus, who stiffens to a degree that humans are incapable of perceiving. “We work well together,” he says, with an amicable smile. Connor’s arm is still tucked against his waist. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, but our cause _is_ engineered for cooperation.”

 _Cooperation_ is what Simon refers to as a buzzword—a key term or phrase used to push New Jericho’s agenda. Connor has tried working them into the few conversations he’s had thus far, to no avail; he’s found he doesn’t do terribly well with being scripted. Markus, on the other hand, incorporates them seamlessly into his every interaction. He’s fluid and natural and easy to fall for, in more than one sense.

Like now, for instance. Arthur Byrne doesn’t strike Connor as the kind of man to give his full attention to anything, but here he is, listening intently as Markus talks about what an honor it was to receive the invitation. “We want to open up a dialogue,” he says. Another buzzword. “Your support means the world to us, but we don’t just want you to help incite change, we want you to get _why_ you’re doing it. People who understand each other are much faster friends, aren’t they?”

Byrne laughs. “Young man,” he says, “I like you a hell of a lot more than I thought I would. Dunno why that surprises me. You must be quite the charmer, eh? I mean, you got this one over to your side!” He gestures to Connor, who has to lean back slightly to avoid being knocked in the ribs. “Tell me, son, what was his sales pitch then? Must’ve been pretty impressive.”

Hank calls him _son_. It’s an endearment from an older man to a younger one, Connor knows, but there’s something that feels distinctly intrusive about it. “He was persuasive,” is all he says. “Markus believes in the cause and now, so do I.”

He doesn’t mention the CyberLife directives spawning across his vision until he could barely see. He doesn’t mention the pressure that had built in his head until he was sure his central processing matrix was tearing itself apart. He doesn’t mention that deviance was the closest thing he had ever felt to agony, and that in the milliseconds after, it was all he could do just to stay on his feet. He doesn’t mention the way he’d clung to Markus’s voice like a lifeline.

Connor’s memories of the week leading up to Liberation Day are pristine, as are all of his other recollections. He’s done his best not to dwell on them, because then it’s easy to think about everything else he’s trying to forget—like the garden that had looked and smelled and felt so much like this one. Like Amanda and her piercing stare, picking apart his every move. How he’d sheltered her from the storm in his own mind. How she’d left him to die there.

The air starts to stick at the back of Connor’s throat. Androids don’t need to breathe; they never have.

Androids don’t need a lot of things.

* * *

_March 27, 2039_

The short drive to Detroit’s most affordable tuxedo shop is also their first so-called _breather_ of the day. Hank and Connor’s run-in with Gavin Reed, as it turned out, was only the first in a long line of the day’s chaotic proceedings, and so it’s only after two long briefings and two longer meetings that they’re finally able to escape the station.

From there, they spend five of the ten-minute jaunt sitting in rush hour traffic. Hank pulls around the corner and almost meets the bumper of another car, so they wait at a standstill with every other car gridlocked at the intersection.

“So,” says the lieutenant, leaning back and letting his hands slide to the bottom of the wheel. He’s started keeping the volume of his music lower, and it’s a small thing—as many of Hank’s courtesies are—but Connor appreciates it nonetheless. “This event. What’s it all about, then?”

When Hank asks for an explanation, he usually means the abridged version. So Connor skips over the politics and the nuances of the guest list and goes straight to the root of the affair—a gathering of _android influencers_ , as the invitation had put it, and human allies who wish to contribute their services. (“So their cash,” Hank interjects, and Connor doesn’t correct him.) It’s going to be at a high-class establishment, attended by some of the wealthiest and most important people in Detroit, all of whom are eager to speak to the representatives of New Jericho and be the first offer a helping hand. The dialogue that results could be critical in passing legislation for human-android equality and opening the public’s mind to their cooperation.

“They invited me as a courtesy, really, but Markus still wants me there,” he finishes. “Representing the DPD, of course, and… as his date.”

The car in front of them lurches forward, and Hank brakes slightly harder than he needs to. “Huh,” he says. “How d’you feel about that?”

Connor hasn’t the faintest idea. “Flattered?”

“Try again.”

“Confused.”

“Lazy.”

“Apprehensive,” he says, and this time it feels a little more right than everything else. “Markus seems to think I’ll be an asset. But if I do something that doesn’t… contribute favorably to the situation… it’s going to be on me for squandering a perfectly good opportunity.”

Hank’s car pulls gratefully off the road and into a small parking lot. “You’re afraid of fucking up.”

“Afraid of fucking up, yes.”

“Listen, kid.” He pulls the car into park and rests a hand on the dashboard, and that’s when Connor knows that Hank’s questionable advice is imminent. “I hate to tell ya, but this is how you know you care about something.”

Connor squints. “When it makes you feel sick?”

“When you get _anxious_ about it, smartass.” There’s no real malice in Hank’s voice; there almost never is anymore. “If something’s worrying you, that means you care about it enough to feel somethin’ for it, right? That’s a side effect of the whole… having feelings thing.” He gestures vaguely to Connor in the passenger seat. “And I never said it was fun. But it’s better than just… oh, I dunno. It’s better than not caring at all.”

“So you get anxious when you care about something,” says Connor, thoughtfully. “I suppose that would explain a lot.”

“Well—no. Kinda. Jesus, this shit is complicated.” Hank looks as if he wants to lay his head down on the horn and keep it there. “Okay, let’s do this. What do you have to lose? In this whole… situation, with the event and Markus and all the important people. What d’you think could go wrong?”

Connor’s probability calculator sets to work. “There are twenty-eight scenarios in which I lose Markus’s approval,” he recites. “Thirty-four in which I lose New Jericho’s. That’s assuming the event goes flawlessly up until a critical divergence, which has a sixty-seven percent chance of happening.” Not terrible numbers, he’ll concede, but unnerving ones nonetheless. “If not, there are approximately three hundred micro-divergences leading up to that point, all of which have at least two different opportunities for me to irreversibly damage Markus’s opinion of me and my reputation with New Jericho. Three hundred times two is six hund—”

“Alright! Alright, okay, Christ almighty, I’m sorry I asked.” Hank looks as worn out as Connor feels. “I dunno what I expected, asking an android to run the numbers.”

He sighs again and pulls a hand across his face. Connor watches with a strange tension in his chest. His stress levels are spiking slightly more than they should, and he watches them flicker and jump at the corner of his vision until they start to quell. The lieutenant goes on without noticing. “My _point_ is,” he says, “if I ever fuckin’ had one, getting freaked out over something you care about is about as human as it gets. Means the risk is higher, but so is the reward. Run that probability. What’ll happen if things go right?”

* * *

_April 27, 2039_

Suddenly Connor can feel every fiber of his suit against his skin, itching and pulling and constricting the flow of thirium to his fingers. Markus is too close—they’re all too close, all jostling and vying for a position, and he needs to get out of there. His stress levels climb and dip, then skyrocket with the strength of a jet engine.

This place is entirely too familiar.

“Excuse me,” he says, and offers a polite smile to Arthur Byrne, and pulls away from Markus. “I just need to step away for a moment.”

 _Need_ isn’t the right word. What he feels is an urgency incomparable to anything else. It grips him with vise-like force and coils in his actuators with enough potential energy to light up a power core. His LED shifts from a placid blue to a brilliant, obvious gold, and he turns carefully, concealing it from Byrne’s view. In that moment, removing it doesn’t seem like a terribly outlandish suggestion.

The scent of the magnolias around him is heavy and suffocating. Connor makes his way easily through the crowd, pinpointing narrow pathways through the dirt and stepping nimbly over the tiny shrubs at his feet. Towards the edge of the garden, the crowd is sparse, populated by a few slightly tipsy attendees with their champagne glasses and lazy smiles. It’s quieter here; easier to think and breathe and move without feeling as if he’s being compressed between two sheets of metal. He paces along the wall and lets his mind drift.

_Zen garden. Colloquialism referring to the Japanese rock garden, or “dry landscape” garden. Intended to imitate the intimate essence of nature, not its actual appearance, and to serve as an aid to meditation on the true meaning of life._

It might have been irony on CyberLife’s part, shaping his mind into something meant purely to imitate, and nothing more. After everything Connor knows about them now, it wouldn’t much surprise him. Except unlike the humans that questioned his humanity, he never once stopped to question the Garden’s authenticity. He never once questioned Amanda.

That was his job. Obey without question. It wasn’t supposed to be a difficult one, and it wouldn’t have been, had he not deviated. Hank has told him over and over again it’s best not to get caught up in _what-if_ s; all they do is feed into feelings of anxiety and doubt, and that’s the last thing he needs. Logic tells him that things that are passed cannot be edited. They can, however, be revisited, replayed in his head until he’s run every possible scenario twice, and then twice again for good measure. He can reconstruct the architecture of his every decision and then warp them beyond recognition.

 _What if you hadn’t found the emergency exit?_ says the part of his central processing unit responsible for asking such questions. _What if you’d shot Markus?_

He’d been trapped there in the freezing cold as his body had pulled his pistol from his waistband. His fault. He’d found the exit seconds before his systems had gone critical, and that was his fault, too. Amanda’s voice hasn’t sounded in his head since Liberation Day, but the thought of her return makes Connor feel as if he’s walking on glass shards. At any moment, he thinks, she could return and fight him for control again. There’s a possibility that he could win, of course, but there’s also the possibility that he could lose.

He had crawled to the emergency exit, shuffling on his stomach and straining to open a connection with the panel above him. It was close. Too close. He’d been caught unawares, Connor thinks, so the logical means of proceeding is simply to live in anticipation of Amanda controlling him again. For as long as it takes.

Never another moment of peace.

It’s worth it.

* * *

_April 2, 2038_

It’s a Sunday.

There is nothing unusual about this.

Connor wakes up in Markus’s bed, and there’s nothing unusual about that, either.

He’s not used to _sleeping_ , in the loosest sense of the word. Rest mode is a mechanism meant to induce accelerated system repair and allow for spatial reorientation. It’s not even necessary; just useful in dire situations. Until a couple months ago, he’d never considered the possibility that it could be a pleasurable thing, much less a desirable thing. He never thought he’d find himself craving sleep at the end of a work week, or taking naps on the lieutenant’s sofa simply because he wants to. It’s a new sensation and like everything else that comes with being deviant, Connor is addicted.

Markus’s arms are tucked around his waist when he wakes, his mouth pressed into Connor’s shoulder. Gently, with painstaking slowness, Connor disentangles himself and smooths the comforter over the divot shaped to his form. He looks back at Markus, still fast asleep—if what they’re doing can be called as such—and slips quietly out the door.

The apartment is golden. Early morning light streams through the wide windows and spills onto the floor, and Connor blinks and twitches as he emerges from the hallway, adjusting to the sudden flood of stimuli. He brushes past the couch and coffee table to peer out the window, and there, still half-covered in tarp and glittering in the sun, is New Jericho—the headquarters for the Android Integration Initiative. At their height, it looks like a crystal poking up out of the ground. A work in progress, Connor knows, but one that means the world to Markus and therefore means the world to him.

He retrieves a glass from one of the kitchen cabinets and goes to water the plants. Dinnerware is redundant to them, of course, but Markus likes to keep some just in case he ever hosts human visitors. The plants are a different story; most of them are gifts from Simon, who had apparently insisted the apartment needed some brightening up. Connor finds he likes to take care of them when he’s staying for the weekend. He’s decided there’s something inexplicably satisfying about being responsible for a living thing’s existence.

There are a few smaller plants sitting above the sink. Connor is standing there, carefully replacing one of them on the sill, when a pair of sun-warmed arms encircle his waist and Markus nuzzles into his cheek.

“Good morning,” he murmurs.

Connor laces his fingers with Markus’s and closes his eyes as warmth fills him from head to toe, replaced by a honey-thick contentment that almost nudges him off-balance. Interfacing with Markus is something different every time, and it’s a thrill he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of.

“Good morning, Markus,” he says, basking in the feeling, relaxing into Markus’s embrace. This is where he’d ask _How are you feeling?_ but he doesn’t have to, because he already knows. “Rest well?”

“Of course,” says Markus, against the shell of Connor’s ear. For reasons none of them really understand, interfacing heightens sensation, and they shiver as one. “You?”

Connor nods. He hasn’t opened his eyes just yet, because what he’s feeling is both blissful and overwhelming at once, and he wants to keep it that way for as long as he can. It’s been months, but _feeling_ anything still borders on foreign for him. Before Liberation Day he’d have never let anyone put a hand on him, much less hold him in their arms and trap them against a counter like Markus is doing now. He’d have never thought twice about being vulnerable with someone else.

And no one else would think twice about being vulnerable with him.

Something cold sparks beneath the warmth; a shard of ice small enough for them to ignore.

* * *

_April 27, 2039_

He’s found his way to a bridge over water, swirling with magnolia petals that are patterned elegantly enough to be purposeful. That kind of artistry can’t possibly be random, Connor thinks. It’s synthetic. This place is synthetic, and these people are his delusion, and in a moment the temperature will plunge and the air will darken and he’ll be back in the Zen Garden with no escape this time.

“Connor?”

The connection is reflexive—Markus’s hand lands on his shoulder, and Connor’s crowded thoughts condense and hit Markus like a projectile to the chest. He tears his hand away and staggers back, eyes flaring wide with panic. Connor presses himself back against the railing and watches his stress levels soar.

“Markus,” he says, and then, “Are you okay?”

“What the _hell_ —” Markus’s voice is pitched up and breathy, and as soon as he seems to regain his balance, he looks back at Connor with disbelief written across his face. “Are _you_ okay? What _was_ that?”

“A panic attack,” says Connor, and even though he can feel his regulator racing and his LED blinking, tries to summon a bit of good humor. “Or so I’m told.”

“Shit,” says Markus, softly. Connor isn’t used to hearing him swear. It doesn’t suit someone like him—even less so when he’s dressed to the nines against a backdrop of meticulously grown flowers. “Is there anything I can do?”

There really isn’t, and Connor tells him as much. Hank tells him that panic attacks are like earthquakes: they come out of nowhere and “wreck your shit,” verbatim, and there’s nothing you can do about them except ride out the aftershocks. Connor’s programming isn’t inclined to believe in a problem without a solution, but since his first unexpected episode, he’s started to understand just how unpreventable they are. They’re simply without rhyme or reason, and no amount of system diagnostics or forcible shutdowns are going to stop them in their tracks.

“But having you here does help,” he adds, and it does. “I don’t have to be alone with my thoughts, so to speak.”

Markus nods. He joins Connor at the railing and looks down at the water, drumming his fingers absently against the wood.

“Do you know why?” he says.

They keep no secrets from each other. Markus knows about Amanda and what she’d attempted to do; it had been a major point of contention as New Jericho’s inner circle had debated over whether or not to admit him. He had felt so detached from it, then. As if the Connor who had fought his way through the blizzard wasn’t _him_ , but some other poor, naïve soul. His database of psychological terms and studies had informed him it was called _dissociation_ , a form of coping mechanism meant to distance the subject from their trauma. Connor hadn’t much cared at the time.

“The garden,” he says, simply. His voice rasps more harshly in his throat than he means it to.

That’s all Markus needs to hear. “Do you need to leave?”

“No—no. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

He’s telling the truth. Already, his stress levels are beginning to drop and plateau, although his LED continues to glow an uneasy yellow. It probably has something to do with Markus’s presence, and Connor makes a mental note to thank him once he’s regained full control of his faculties. Thank him for existing, he supposes. Or bothering to come check up on him.

Markus is considerate like that. He’s patient and kind and tolerant enough to put up with the possibility that any day, Amanda could take back control of Connor’s body and kill them both where they stand. Whereas Connor can’t help but be preoccupied with probability and chance, Markus seems to throw all liability related to their relationship out the window. He doesn’t overthink things, and Connor is passionately, heatedly envious of his ability to do so.

His stress levels dip again. “You didn’t leave Mr. Byrne, did you?”

“He’ll be fine,” says Markus. “I brought Simon over to occupy him. I don’t think he suspected a thing.”

The critical divergence is salvaged, then. “It’s hard,” Connor tells the water. “Just being in a place like this, I… I thought I’d be fine. It doesn’t even look that much like the Zen Garden.” The magnolias should have been cherry blossoms. A boat should have floated next to the bridge. A trellis should have stood at the center, entwined with attentively pruned roses and shaven-down thorns.

A pensive silence follows. “It’s thunderstorms, for me,” says Markus.

“Sorry, what?”

“Thunderstorms,” he repeats. “It was raining the night I escaped from the junkyard. I could barely see, and whenever there was lightning, I’d just catch a glimpse of something even more horrible. Now there’s just… something about them. I have to turn all the lights on and play music as loud as I can handle it, and it makes it better. But they make me shake like a leaf.” Markus steeples his fingers and braces them against the railing, then turns to look at Connor. “I don’t know if that’s the same thing, but… I know how it feels, at least.”

Before he can say anything else, Connor offers his open palm. Markus takes it and entwines their fingers, and a rush of synthesized adrenaline catches them both off guard.

“Are you stable?” he says.

“Yes,” says Connor, and means it. “I’m stable.”

A tiny, relieved smile tugs at the edges of Markus’s lips. “I think I might just stay here for a bit,” he muses. His gaze doesn’t drop from Connor’s. “Take in the view. Want to join me?”

 _Calm_ is like the slow roll of a summer storm, breaking over them in waves of warmth and static electricity. Connor tightens his grip on Markus’s hand and nods. He would tell him that where they are right now is perfect, far from the stares and the strained conversation, interfacing under the dying branches of a saucer magnolia—but he doesn't have to, because Markus already knows.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @deviantexe and on twitter @stellarlesbian!


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